Frustrated, Kate looked desperately about the ship, searching for an idea. Her eye fell on the rack holding the boarding axes.
The crew members were staring at the glowing palace. Franklin was intent upon his target. The helmsman was concentrating on his task. The only person she had to worry about was Corporal Grunnel, who was standing on the main deck, manning the port-side swivel gun. To reach her objective, she would have to get past him.
Kate glided over to the rack, grabbed one of the axes, and pressed it close to her thigh so no one would notice. She then walked back toward the stern, swearing under her breath.
“The damn airscrew would choose this time to fail.”
A few of the crew glanced at her, but they were used to her going about the ship repairing the magic, and no one stopped her.
Kate continued toward the stern. The distance across the deck from the front of the ship to the rear seemed interminable, and she longed to break into a run. Someone would take notice at that and alert Franklin. Kate gritted her teeth and kept walking. Her palms were sweating, and the axe handle was slippery. She gripped it so tightly her hand started to ache.
She drew level with Grunnel and the swivel gun. He was supervising one of the crew members who was busy loading it. Neither looked at Kate. She reached the stern in safety.
She could hear the airscrews, one on the port side, one on starboard, whirring beneath her. She glanced over the rail. The last of the rooftops was coming into view. Beyond that was the broad thoroughfare that ran in front of the palace, then the outer wall and the palace grounds.
Kate came to the place on the deck known as the “crafter’s cut.” The braided leather that carried the magic to the airscrews ran mostly below deck. At this juncture, a hatch allowed access to the line as it traveled down to the airscrew.
Kate threw open the hatch, positioned herself above the line, and raised the axe. She heard a smothered shout, the sound of feet pounding across the deck, and looked up to see Grunnel bearing down on her. He had drawn his pistol, but he didn’t dare fire for fear someone would hear the shot.
Kate brought the axe down on the braided leather with a strength born of fear, and sliced through it with a single stroke, just as Grunnel slammed into her with his shoulder. He knocked her off balance and she dropped the axe. He tried to grab hold of her, but she kneed him in the groin and he doubled over with a groan. Kate started to pick up the axe, to disable the other aircrew, but more crew members were now aware of the danger and were rushing to stop her.
She climbed onto the rail and looked down. The ship was above a building with what looked like a flat roof about six feet below.
A hand grabbed her foot. Kate stomped on the fingers and the hand let go with a curse. She sucked in a deep breath and jumped.
She landed on the roof with a jarring thud that seemed to jam her spine into her skull, and had to take a moment to recover from the paralyzing shock.
She looked up at the black ship. She had managed to cripple it; she could hear the sound of only one airscrew. A ship could continue to sail with one airscrew, especially a small ship such as the Naofa. She had not stopped it, as she had hoped, but she had managed to slow it down, giving her time to warn someone.
She could see Franklin in the darkness, glaring down at her, helpless to do anything. The ship sailed on, crossed the boulevard, and headed toward the palace wall.
The roof sloped at a slight angle to allow runoff, and she slipped and skittered precariously on the slate tiles as she made her way to the edge and tried to figure out how to get down.
An iron gutter ran around the roof. A street lamp stood on the corner and she could see by its light that her options were an old and rickety-looking drain spout or a two-story drop.
Kate was still jarred from the last jump, so she opted for the drain spout. She gingerly lowered herself onto it and clasped her knees around it, intending to shinny down the drain spout the way she shinnied down a mast.
The drain spout was not like a mast, however. It was anchored to the building and she couldn’t get a proper hold on it. She clung to it as best she could, scrabbling with her feet for a toehold and slicing her hands on rusted iron. The drain spout solved her problem by breaking beneath her weight. She plunged to the ground and landed amidst the wreckage of the drain spout, shaken, bruised, and bleeding.
Kate staggered to her feet and looked for the black ship, but it had sailed over the wall onto the palace grounds and was almost lost to sight.
All she could see was the faint green glow of the gun that had blown up a cliff.
FIFTY-SIX
Henry Wallace was sitting in his favorite leather chair in his study before the fire. He had come here to read the newspaper, but the Haever Gazette, dated 11/28, lay unopened in his lap. He held in his hands the queen’s letter announcing the name of her heir. He had not removed the seal. He would not read it until the time she had dictated. He had given her his word and, as she knew, his word was inviolate.
His wife had gone out for the evening to dine with friends. They had invited Henry, but he had declined to go, pleading fatigue from his recent travels. Alan and Randolph had urged him to join them for dinner at the Naval Club. Simon had wanted him to come to Welkinstead, saying he wanted to discuss a theory he had regarding liquid Breath in the Aligoes. Henry had refused both invitations.
He was not fit company for anyone tonight, including his friends. He was tired, as he had said, although the weariness was more of spirit than of the flesh.
He had accompanied the queen back to the palace two days ago. She had been smiling, in a good humor, and had ordered Henry to stop fussing over her and go back to work. He had spent the next two days at the Foreign Office attempting to repair the damage done in his absence by bureaucratic fools who had blundered into delicate situations with all the grace of prize hogs and had then come begging him to pull them out of the muck.
In addition, he had to deal yet again with the Travian dragons. One of their number had been killed in a rock slide; a tragic event, but one which was an act of God, over which he had no control. Yet they were now in an uproar, claiming the rock slide had been triggered by magic; that this was murder. He was extremely sorry he had ever involved himself with dragons.
Henry tapped the queen’s letter on his knee and frowned at the fire, musing over a report that the Countess de Marjolaine had arrived unexpectedly in Haever. She had let it be known that she had come to visit the Princess Sophia and to give a lavish ball in the princess’s honor.
The countess was perfectly free to visit Freya. The two nations were not at war. She was known to take an interest in the princess’s education, and, although the countess was viewed with suspicion and hostility by the Freyan nobility, the fools would be tumbling all over themselves to secure an invitation to attend her ball.
Henry thrust the queen’s letter into the inner pocket of his coat. He carried it with him at all times, placed it beneath his pillow when he slept. Rising from the chair, he to went to pour himself a brandy, still thinking about the countess.
The reason Cecile had given for being in Haever seemed perfectly logical, except that Henry had just read an announcement in a Rosian newspaper that the Duke de Bourlet and his wife were the proud parents of a baby boy. Cecile de Marjolaine would never absent herself from home at such a joyous time. Henry knew her as he knew himself. She had some urgent reason to travel to Haever and it was not to give lavish balls.
“That blasted woman is up to something,” Henry said, drinking his brandy.
The great clock in the hall chimed eight times. Henry drew out his pocket watch to check its accuracy and discovered he was a minute behind. He corrected his watch and smiled to think his wife would soon be home. He always waited up for Ann when she was away for the evening. Given the unrest in the streets, he was never easy until she was safely in the house.
The clock chimed a quarter past and he went to the window. He drew aside the curtain and looked out j
ust in time to see her carriage arrive. The coachman, Baxter, assisted Ann to alight. She looked up, saw the light in the study, and knew he was watching. She smiled and touched her hand to her lips.
Henry smiled back. He lowered the curtain, returned to his chair, and realized suddenly that he had let the fire go out, and the room was cold. Ann would come to the study to share with him the gossip of the evening. He reached for the bellpull to order the servants to relight the fire.
He halted, frozen, his hand in midair.
A woman screamed and kept screaming, not once but over and over, the high-pitched shrill shriek of hysteria. Her screams were accompanied by a commotion—the sounds of shouts and people running. Alarmed, Henry was about to yank open the door to find out what was going on when the door burst open of its own accord.
A maid stood gasping and wringing her hands. “Oh, sir, the mistress says to come quick! It’s Mr. Sloan!”
Henry bolted out the door, almost knocking down the maid, and ran down the stairs. He stopped about halfway down, arrested by the astonishing scene.
The front door stood open. One of the maids was screaming hysterically in a corner. His wife and Amelia Nettleship were propping up Mr. Sloan, assisting him to enter the house. He was partially clothed in a torn and bloody uniform jacket, trousers, and shoes, but no shirt or stockings. His torso was swathed in bandages that were stained with fresh blood. He collapsed as he crossed the threshold and fell to the floor.
Henry dashed down the stairs as Amelia quickly shut the door behind her. She caught sight of him and gave a shake of her head, as though to say “a bad business.” She then proceeded to deal with the hysterical maid.
“Stop shrieking, my girl! The neighbors will hear you!” Amelia said sharply. “One of you, take her to the kitchen and be quick about it.”
Ann was on her knees beside Mr. Sloan. She had removed her own cloak and was wrapping it around him, as she issued orders to the staff.
“Jacobs, send someone to fetch Dr. Vollmer. We will convey Mr. Sloan to the downstairs bedroom, so see to it that there is a fire. Tell Cook I will need boiling water and bandages. The wound has broken open and we must stop the bleeding.”
Henry hurried down the stairs. Finding Mr. Sloan was unconscious, Henry looked to Amelia for answers.
“I received word that a man had fainted on Market Street and was found to be suffering from a gunshot wound. I went to the hospital, of course, to see if I could obtain the story and was astonished to find the victim was Mr. Sloan. He said he needed to speak to you on a matter of the utmost urgency. He was in no condition to be moving about, so I told him I would fetch you or I would carry the message. He said he could not stay in the hospital. He feared those who had shot him would come searching for him, to silence him. He asked me to help smuggle him out and bring him to your house. I did so and that is all I know,” Amelia concluded.
“Thank you, Miss Amelia,” said Henry, opening the front door. “You have my eternal gratitude. We will deal with this matter now.”
“Hear me out, my lord. If I had not come across Mr. Sloan, I would have come to you anyway,” said Amelia. “Something is amiss in the city tonight.”
“I will read your article about it in the morning,” said Henry.
He did not exactly shove her bodily through the door, but he came close, maneuvering her across the threshold and out onto the door stoop. He quickly clapped the door shut behind her. Looking out, he saw her hesitate on the stoop and then she turned and walked down the sidewalk.
Henry hurried back to his wife.
Ann looked up at him. She was pale, but quite composed. “Mr. Sloan was conscious and tried to say something just now, but he passed out before he could. I fear he has lost a vast quantity of blood.”
“Mr. Sloan!” Henry knelt beside his friend and pressed his hand.
Mr. Sloan roused at the sound of Henry’s voice and opened his eyes. “Sir, I have to tell you—”
“Not now, Mr. Sloan!” Henry interrupted. He glanced around at the servants. “Some of you men, help me convey him to the bedroom.”
“Sir,” Mr. Sloan said weakly. “Please!… Lex Talionis! I must—”
“No more talking, Mr. Sloan. Time enough when you have rested.”
Ann had been watching Mr. Sloan. He was gray and haggard, his eyes sunken, his face bathed in sweat. He gazed at Henry with a fixed intensity.
“Henry,” Ann said. “I think you should hear what he has to tell you.”
“I will, my dear,” said Henry. “When he is settled—”
“Henry, listen to what Mr. Sloan has to say now!” Ann spoke sharply. “He has risked his life to bring you information he considers urgent.”
Henry stared at her in shock. His “Mouse” had never raised her voice to him or to anyone that he had ever known.
“His Lordship is listening, Mr. Sloan,” Ann said.
“Yes, Franklin, you have my complete attention,” said Henry. “Tell me.”
Mr. Sloan had to summon strength. His words came out in gasps. “Prince Tom … here. Meeting Her Majesty … tonight, eleven of the clock … Plot to overthrow … Troops … our uniforms, queen arrested…”
“Good God!” Henry exclaimed in horror. “When?”
“This night … Your brother…”
“Richard?” Henry was puzzled. “What has he to do with this?”
Mr. Sloan moistened his lips. “The Faithful … Sir Richard … part of the plot…”
Anne cast her husband a stricken look.
“You must be mistaken, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.
Mr. Sloan clasped Henry’s hand tightly. “I am sorry, my lord. So very sorry…”
His head lolled. His eyes closed.
Henry gently laid down his hand and rose to his feet. He glanced at the clock.
“Half past eight. I must leave at once.”
“Take the carriage!” Ann told him, rising to her feet. “Baxter will not yet have unhitched the horses!” She added softly, “Mr. Sloan may be wrong about your brother, my dear.”
“He is not wrong,” Henry said. He kissed his wife’s hand. “Stay with him, my love.”
“I will not leave his side,” Ann promised. “Be careful! Pray God you are in time!”
Jacobs stood ready with Henry’s cloak and hat. Henry put them on, hardly knowing what he was doing, and ran outside, shouting at the coachman, who had started to drive the carriage around back to the stables.
“To the palace with all possible speed. Kill the horses if you must!” Henry added grimly, “It is a matter of life and death!”
He jumped into the carriage and shut the door, only to see the door open on the other side. Amelia nimbly climbed in and took a seat across from him.
“Miss Amelia, this is an outrage!” Henry cried, glaring at her.
He would have pushed her out, but the coachman used the whip and urged the horses forward at a gallop. The coach lurched, flinging Henry backward and almost sending Amelia forward into his arms.
She regained her seat, hanging on as the coach shook and rattled.
“You need to listen to me, my lord! I told you something was amiss! It is said that animals sense when a storm is in the offing and seek shelter. The citizens of Haever have gone to ground. Doors throughout the city are locked and bolted. Shops have closed. I have heard reports of secret gatherings of armed men. I have no idea what it means…”
“I do,” said Henry. “There is a plot to overthrow the queen.”
“Ah,” said Amelia. “I thought it might be something like that. The Faithful.”
“The Faithful,” Henry murmured.
Amelia opened her mouth. “My lord—”
Henry raised his hand. “Please, Miss Amelia. Your questions will have to wait. I need to think.”
Amelia nodded. “I understand, my lord.”
She clutched her reticule in her hand and gazed out the window.
Henry tried to concentrate on the danger to his country, bu
t his thoughts kept twisting back to his brother.
The Old Chap, gray and staid, dull as dirt, boring as cold mutton, plotting to bring down the monarchy.
And yet it all made sense, now that Henry thought about it. Their father had always deplored the fact that their misguided ancestors had lost the family fortune and title by backing the wrong side in the Cousins War.
Henry had laughed at what he termed “ancient history,” said their ancestors were fools for supporting a weak-willed King James and they got what they deserved. Richard, however, had always taken their father’s side, speaking of James as a martyr and Alfred as a monster who had robbed the family of their due.
Henry stared out into the night.
My own brother could be hanged for treason.
The coach bounded over the cobblestones and took a corner at high speed, throwing Henry and his fellow passenger hard against the door.
“Are you all right, Miss Amelia?” Henry asked.
“Please do not concern yourself with me, my lord,” said Amelia, recovering her hat and picking up the reticule. “I am the least of your worries.”
Henry had work to do. He would deal with Richard when the time came.
“I need your assistance, Miss Amelia,” he said. “I must ask you to move. I need to lift up your seat.”
The swaying of the carriage tossed them both about, but between them they managed to open the secret compartment. Henry drew out several pistols, powder, and shot.
Amelia assisted him in loading the weapons. This proved difficult not only because of the erratic motion of the carriage, but they had to wait until it passed beneath a street lamp so they could see what they were doing.
“I don’t suppose it would do me any good to recommend that once we arrive at the palace, you take a cab for home, Miss Amelia,” said Henry. “There will likely be trouble.”
“None in the slightest, my lord,” said Amelia. She patted her reticule. “I always go armed, as you know.” She added in hardened tones, “I hope we arrive in time to put a stop to this nonsense!”
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